By Rod Benson
Recently, I have been reading a lot about Celtic history and spirituality. For someone like me, who identifies as a follower of Jesus, the most compelling feature of Celtic Christianity is arguably its integration of biblical faith, disciplined prayer, missionary adventure, poetry and attachment to place. It invites us to explore a Christian world in which learning and holiness, solitude and community, and contemplation and public witness belong together. Those who know me well will understand why I find Celtic spirituality in its Christian form so compelling.
I am also interested in poetry in all its forms, so I was fascinated to find a brief chapter on “Gnomic poems” near the end of Robert Van de Weyer’s edited volume, Celtic Fire: The Passionate Religious Vision of Ancient Britain and Ireland. In all my prior reading, I had not encountered this form in theory although, when one actually sees a gnomic poem in the wild, it is unlikely to appear outlandish even if the grammar is a little arresting. A “gnome” is a type of maxim, usually preceded by apparently unrelated nature images. Here are three examples from the book mentioned above:
Red is the cock’s comb, and loud his voice
God praises man when man praises GodJoyful are the pigs when food is brought, and eager their eating
The man who uses his talents to the full will be fully satisfiedDelightful are the tops of oak trees; they provide shade for lovers to meet
The colour of the cheek cannot disguise the feelings of the heart[1]
The sound of a crowing rooster. The delight of pigs anticipating a good meal. The beauty and utility of an oak tree. Snow settles on a mountain. A stag moving through rushes. Someone reflecting on worship, purposeful labour, young love, suffering, or the behaviour of fools. In Welsh gnomic poetry, such observations stand beside one another, sometimes illuminating their neighbours, sometimes leaving the connection unstated.
These compact poems bring the natural world into conversation with human experience. Their wisdom emerges through attention to ordinary things: weather, animals, seasonal change, relationships and the vulnerabilities of age. For readers accustomed to poetry that tells a story or develops an argument, their abrupt transitions may seem confusing. Yet that strangeness is part of their enduring appeal.
“Gnomic” derives from the Greek gnōmē, meaning a judgement or maxim. It describes poetry concerned with general observations about life and the world. A gnomic statement need not offer advice or contain a moral lesson. Kenneth Jackson, whose Early Welsh Gnomic Poems appeared in 1935, distinguished statements about what characteristically happens from proverbs and explicit instructions. Describing where an eagle nests differs from telling someone how to behave. Welsh gnomic verse accommodates observations about nature and humanity, alongside descriptions of particular scenes. Its scope therefore extends beyond moral sayings.
Important manuscript witnesses include the thirteenth-century Black Book of Carmarthen and the Red Book of Hergest, compiled around 1382–1408. These preserve material older than their surviving copies, but the dates of individual poems and verses are often uncertain. Traditional associations with figures such as Llywarch Hen do not establish authorship. Copying, rearrangement and the accumulation of material complicate attempts to recover an original composition. These are works of medieval literary culture whose particular histories deserve attention, rather than convenient illustrations of a supposedly timeless “Celtic spirituality.”
Wisdom between the lines
Much of this poetry employs englynion, the plural of englyn—compact Welsh verse forms governed by syllable counts and rhyme. One early form, the englyn milwr, consists of three seven-syllable lines sharing a rhyme. Such compression gives observations weight and makes them memorable. A brief utterance can sound authoritative because its verbal shape feels complete. Yet a completed stanza need not deliver a completed explanation. The reader must still consider why its images and judgements have been drawn together. Form provides coherence while leaving room for uncertainty.
The sequence Eiry Mynydd, or “Mountain Snow”, demonstrates this suggestive method. Its recurring opening establishes a wintry setting for observations about human experience. One stanza brings together mountain snow, a roaming stag and the heart’s response to what it loves. Elsewhere, freezing marshes and stored mead accompany an observation about the complaints of the afflicted. The relationships remain unexplained. Winter may sharpen our awareness of exposure, bodily need or shelter, but every natural detail need not become a symbol with one correct interpretation.
This method rewards patience. Asking what snow has to do with love is reasonable, but demanding an immediate explanation can narrow our reading. Juxtaposition allows resemblance, contrast and emotional association to remain possible. A winter landscape can intensify an observation without proving it. The natural world acquires significance while retaining its independence. Readers familiar with biblical wisdom literature may recognise a comparable attentiveness to ordinary experience. The Book of Proverbs in the Hebrew Scriptures likewise considers animals, speech, labour and relationships. That resemblance offers a useful comparison, although it does not establish literary dependence.
An encounter with the Zen kōan
Another illuminating comparison is with the kōan in Zen Buddhism. The resemblance concerns how language engages its audience; the sources considered here do not establish historical transmission between the traditions. Originating in Chinese Chan Buddhism, kōans take their name from gong’an, meaning “public case”. They often preserve encounters between teachers and disciples, including questions, unexpected replies and gestures, which became material for religious instruction. Their significance extends beyond the popular image of an insoluble riddle. They belong to a tradition in which words and actions become occasions for sustained spiritual practice.
Both traditions can interrupt expectations about how words should connect. A Welsh stanza places mountain snow beside a judgement about conduct. A Zen teacher may answer an abstract question with something disconcertingly concrete. In a celebrated case, Zhaozhou, known in Japanese as Jōshū, responds to a question about the meaning of Bodhidharma’s coming from the west by referring to the cypress tree in the courtyard. Some English translations call it an oak. The exchange has generated extensive interpretation within Zen, including reflection by Dōgen.
Placed beside Eiry Mynydd, this encounter suggests a shared capacity to redirect attention towards the immediate world. Snow, a stag or a tree can arrest our search for an abstract explanation. Neither text, however, is exhausted by an injunction to appreciate nature. The deeper similarity concerns participation: readers must reconsider what they expected the words to do. Why should this observation follow that question? What assumptions make their relationship appear strange? Apparent discontinuity can become an invitation to examine our habits of perception and interpretation.
The differences remain substantial. Welsh gnomic verse frequently makes intelligible generalisations about experience, even when their arrangement seems elusive. Kōan practice belongs to a Buddhist discipline directed towards awakening, involving meditation and guidance from a teacher. Particularly in Rinzai Zen, it challenges the adequacy of conceptual reasoning alone and seeks transformation in how practitioners experience self and world. Appreciating an ingenious interpretation therefore differs from fulfilling a kōan’s role within religious training. The comparison illuminates a resemblance without making the traditions interchangeable.
Reflecting on experience
Neither tradition requires us to abandon critical thought. A memorable maxim may preserve insight while concealing questionable assumptions about courage, reputation or proper behaviour. Whose experience gives it authority? Who might understand the situation differently? Jonathan Shack’s research on early English and Welsh gnomic poetry argues that ambiguities and gaps invite audiences to examine apparently settled truths. Read with such attentiveness, these small poems offer more than inherited answers. Like kōans, though within a different practice and purpose, they can change the quality of our questioning. Snow on a mountain is an occasion for the poet, and the reader or listener, to pause and observe the ordinary yet extraordinary world around them, and to reflect on experience.
Rev Dr Rod Benson is General Secretary of the NSW Ecumenical Council and a minister of the Uniting Church in Australia serving at North Rocks Community Church in Sydney.
Reference
[1] Robert Van de Weyer, Celtic Fire: The Passionate Religious Vision of Ancient Britain and Ireland (New York: Doubleday, 1990), 209-211.
Image source: Sykes Holiday Cottages
